


a puppet on a lonely string

by Nanimok



Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Yassen Gregorovich Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26341483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: Snippets of a world where John Rider is Blunt's successor and Alex defects to Scorpia.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 19
Kudos: 124





	a puppet on a lonely string

**Author's Note:**

> A hundred million thanks to Valaks who gave birth to this brain baby and Ireliss for bunfriend's endless support and bongo emojis.

John Rider is a fool, but this is not news. It took Yassen a while to realise. When he did, the realisation rooted. Now, Yassen looks back at Paris and he only sees proof of it. After all, things that are precious should be cherished; not endangered by a Parisian outing in broad daylight, and certainly not left in a Siberian prison to rot while a Strike Team was standing armed and ready. 

But as John taught him in Malagosto, they are different people with different approaches to a problem. It benefits Yassen, in the end. One man's trash is another man's treasure, and Yassen grew up learning how to stretch meals and stitch second-hand clothes into first class garments. It's a matter of luck and resources. Yassen prides himself on being a particularly resourceful man when the opportunity presents itself.

There is a head resting on his shoulder, and normally he would be irritated at the happenstance. At this moment, though, he's not fussed. It belongs to a boy long dead by his father's hands. He is very much alive beside Yassen, however, and he is drooling horribly on a particularly expensive jacket Yassen bought on a rare cold day in Greece.

Yassen strokes a hand through his hair. He smells like the dry grit of a busy airport and sharp sweetness of cheap cherry shampoo. When tucking his hair back does nothing to wake the boy, Yassen gives his shoulder a gentle shake.

"Hunter," Yassen says quietly. And he is Hunter, because codenames are precious and codenames protect cherished things. Alex is very much one of his cherished things. 

Smacking his lips, but his eyes still closed, Alex repositions his head so that his cheek rests on a new spot ready to be drooled on. "Five more minutes," he mumbles.

Yassen knows how this goes. Five minutes will stretch into ten, which will last until the sun has risen past its highest point and until Alex has commandeered the whole bed for himself. Not even plane seats are safe from his tyranny, it seems.

"We're almost there," he points out.

"Hmm," Alex says.

"You will be less groggy if you give yourself time to wake up."

"Okay."

"Hunter."

"Cossack," Alex says, slipping into sleep. 

"Five more minutes," Yassen concedes, hand automatically combing through Alex's hair. A brief debate settles itself before his mind can form an argument, and Yassen buries his nose into the tuft of yellow hair. He breathes in to the lull of Alex's breathing evening out. 

A couple more minutes of rest won't hurt, Yassen supposes. Alex does need the rest. He has a big day tomorrow, and it all begins once they finally set foot for London.

* * *

Alex arrives in Malagosto as nothing more than a hurt, broken, and angry teenager. He hides his scars under long sleeve shirts, and he scrubs his skin obsessively in the sink for minutes at a time.

Yassen is assigned as his handler.

“He killed her,” Alex says. “He killed mum.”

Yassen doesn’t ask him to elaborate. The more volatile Alex is, the more driven he will be.

He does, however, take Alex’s hand into his own, and applies ointment on the bits of red skin that’s split open.

Under Yassen’s tutelage, Alex blossoms. John Rider taught Alex how to be a spy, and so Yassen teaches him how to be a killer. He takes the same ruthless nature that is already there and he pours it with affirmation; a brush of hand on his back, a pat on his shoulder, a lingering thumb on the nape of his neck. Soon, Yassen’s work bears fruit and Alex’s anger tames itself. Then, once the anger simmers down into something palatable, Alex trades the heat in his belly for something much more visceral.

It is about anticipation, and it is about appreciation. It is about attention and affection. Yassen takes Alex’s chin in one hand, and he watches how Alex goes still and silent under his touch.

Yassen smiles. His thumb travels up Alex’s chin and catches on his bottom lip, plush and shiny from his waiting.

Alex leans in.

But instead of doing anything more, Yassen walks away.

Alex is left—standing. Looking bereft, eyes wide and gait wilted.

Yassen pauses. He looks back over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

He doesn’t need to look back to know that Alex is following at his tail like a sniffling puppy.

Alex arrives in Malagosto as nothing more than a hurt, broken, and angry teenager. So Yassen lays him down on his bed. He starts from the hollow of Alex’s neck and works his way up, and then down. He undoes every piece of Alex Rider until he’s gasping and clutching at Yassen for mercy. Then he pieces Alex back together, with his nimble fingers and his clever mouth.

Alex leaves Malagosto as Yassen’s in every way that matters.

* * *

Alex’s first mission is Jeremy Doan, a rising tech-tycoon based in Melbourne, Australia. He has made powerful enemies in his previous business venture. That much is clear. Otherwise, he seems like a particularly mundane man with a propensity for corporate fraud once and a while—not much different from others in his position.

It is summer time in the southern hemisphere, and the heat bears down on their necks like a heavy blanket. The tourists have doubled, the trams are packed, and the streets buzzes raucously with human traffic during the day and the night time. The dense population of the city centre provides both advantages and disadvantages. Alex is given two weeks for his mission. Mugging, Yassen reads—nostalgia surging like an errant wave—like his own first mission. Yassen will be part of the anonymous crowd, watching and evaluating Alex’s approach to the mission. Alex won’t know that he’s there. Regardless, Yassen has nothing but high expectations for him.

Indeed, Alex finishes his mission in nine days, with five to spare. He is clean in his setup and his aftermath. His execution, however…

Only because Yassen shadows him, does he see the hesitation: a moment in time, possibly less than a millisecond, where his hands stutter at the trigger, and a flash of—something pierces through his stern expression.

When Alex opens the door to his hotel room, his grip on the doorknob tightens, betraying a hint of mild shock. “Cossack,” Alex says

“Follow me,” Yassen says, and waits for him in front of the elevator.

He doesn’t need to ask if Alex is packed; Alex’s bag was zipped and sitting at the foot of the bed. It is standard procedure for Alex to relocate immediately after the mission, the most preferable option being a flight straight out of the country. That is what they do. They have three nights in Singapore, where Yassen will give his evaluation.

From the tightness of his pursed lips, Alex clearly knows that Yassen must have somehow known. His knees jitters, jumping up and down throughout the flights. He only stops when Yassen rests his hand on it.

“We will talk,” Yassen says. “But until then, rest. You’ve done well.”

Alex stiffens like a strained bow. His eyes flick up and down his face, but when he finds no hardness in Yassen’s face, he finally lets some tension slide off his shoulders.

“It’s only an eight-hour flight anyway,” Alex says, like it’s not a big deal. 

Yassen humours him. “Of course,” he says.

His hand still rests on Alex’s knee, thumb rubbing small circles on a knob of bone jutting out. In the corner of his eye, he sees Alex melting into the touch. His body curve in his seat, moving away from the aisle, and pointing towards Yassen’s. Eventually, he nods off, and his head finds its spot on Yassen’s shoulder.

* * *

Yassen is in charge with their accommodation in Singapore. A garden wing with a single king bed in the Shangri-La hotel. There’s a mini-bar, a coffee maker, flat-screen tv and private bathrooms. Their stay is sure to be luxurious.

Resting his bag on a lounge chair, Yassen sits on the bed. He gestures for Alex to stand in front of him.

Alex would have flopped face first onto the bed by now, regardless of his dirty clothes. He is more subdued, now, walking towards Yassen with his hands on his sides.

“Why does it feel like I’m walking in front of a firing squad?” Alex asks.

Yassen watches him from where he sits. The longer Alex’s joke falls flat, the tighter his smile gets. It’s fascinating.

Finally, the silence becomes too much.

“I hesitated,” Alex blurts out. “I don’t know why. I’m sorry.”

Yassen takes his fidgety hands, and he pulls Alex closer, until Alex stands between his legs. “Are you sure you don’t know why?” he asks, while looking up at Alex’s face.

He gets an interesting view of Alex’s throat bobbing up and down. A tell Alex subconsciously lets himself show only in Yassen’s presence.

“You hesitated,” Yassen says. “Why? It’s certainly not because he’s a bad man. That would make it easier for you.”

His hands twitch in Yassen’s hold. “It’s stupid,” Alex says.

“Who says?”

“Me.”

“And you are your own handler now?”

“It just,” Alex says. “Suddenly felt real. And it surprised me. That’s all.”

“Ah,” Yassen says. “Okay.”

Alex releases a shaky breath. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Yassen says. “I’m not going to tear you into strips every time there is a misstep. Some things take time to master, and that approach impeded progress. You will remember this moment, yes?”

Alex nods.

“Then that is all that matters,” Yassen says. “I’m not John, Alex. While there will always be room for improvement, you performed exceptionally well for your first mission.”

Alex squeezes his fingers, and moves his hands so he could clutch Yassen’s shoulders.

Yassen takes the opportunity to pull Alex even closer, so that he can sneak his hands under Alex’s shirt. The first brush of hands on skin is like his senses breathing a sigh of relief, and he can’t help his wandering fingers from traveling up the dip of Alex’s back.

There is still a thread of anxiousness inside his puppy, but Yassen is adamant on smoothing out the knots.

“Did it bother you?” Yassen asks. “That you killed him for money?”

“I…” Alex says. “I know what I signed up for.”

“So it does.”

“He seemed like he deserved it.”

“But what if he didn’t?”

“What?”

“What if he was innocent?” Yassen asks, while keeping his strokes long and slow. Up and down. Down and up. “What if you murdered an upstanding citizen, left his wife a widow, left his children fatherless, all because Scorpia told you to do it?”

Alex doesn’t answer.

“Alex?”

“If you asked me to, I would,” Alex finally says. “If it came from you. I’ll learn.”

A smile breaks out on Yassen’s face. He leans forward, and presses his lips against Alex’s shirt, right above where his belly button would be.

It has been a long time since Yassen—since Yassen has been flooded with a full-bodied kind of desire. Nothing else occupies his mind quite like Alex Rider; the shape, the feel, the sound and the thoughts of him. Yassen wonders, at times, if it was possible for two people to live in the same skin. If it was possible for two beings to be so entwined yet still hold the distinct, individual threads of their selves.

Yassen thinks that Alex wouldn’t mind if Yassen crawled inside his skin and made a home there.

Regretfully, he removes his hands.

Alex makes a noise in protest, and leans in to his touch.

He does make such a compelling argument. “Lie down,” Yassen insists. “I will start a bath for you.”

“Later.”

“It will do you good to get clean.”

“Hmm. Maybe later. I think I’m going to nap first,” Alex says, stifling a yawn. “Jetlag.”

Yassen raises an eyebrow. Usually, his puppy would jump at a hint of pampering. “The bath is big enough for two.”

“Oh.” Alex straightens up, mood considerably brighter. “Okay then. I guess the nap can wait, then.”

He all but runs into the bathroom.

* * *

Alex’s first major slip up lands him back in the hands of MI6. In Alex’s fairness, the odds were purposefully stacked against him. Julia Rothman wants to re-evaluate how Alex handles pressure in enemy territory. Yassen thinks that her vindictive nature towards John Rider extends to his son. They have a man on the inside. Thus, a couple of well-placed words and Alex is back in hot water. 

Yassen is told, in no uncertain terms, that he should stand down and let the mission takes its course. After all these years, Julia Rothman is still so beholden to John Rider, even when she refutes any mention of him. Yassen wonders if he would have been the same. If it wasn’t for Alex Rider making a home under his skin, would John Rider still leech off his thoughts like he did all those years ago? Regardless, Julia should have kept her dirty laundry away from Alex, in Yassen’s humble opinion. Put the conviction behind her words that John means nothing to her anymore rather than pretend otherwise for the sake of her pride.

Martin Wilby hasn’t even closed his side of the door before he begins speaking. “They’re moving John’s boy off the grid,” Wilby says. “Somewhere they can keep him under lock and key with a psychiatrist.”

Yassen taps his finger on his steering wheel. He’s been much more irritable lately, like a finnicky string instrument in the wintertime. Always one degree away from going off-tune. His annoyance only pricks harder at the mention of Alex being describe as _John’s_ boy when he clearly isn’t—not anymore.

“They want to rehabilitate him,” Yassen says. “This is new.”

Yassen would have expected John to dispose of him, either in prison or in life. It is something Yassen is prepared for. All he would need is a point of time for an extraction.

“They’re willing to give him another shot because he’s young. And that’s he an invaluable asset.”

“Of course,” Yassen says. An agent trained under him and John Rider. Blunt’s wet dream.

Wilby nods. “The plan is for Ian to go with him, too. Provide a comforting face while he undergoes his brainwashing.”

Thinking of Ian’s face as anything other than unpleasant is laughable. It almost mildens his bad temper.

“Hmm,” is what Yassen simply says. “Location?”

“Unknown. Still working on it.”

Yassen runs his tongue against the sharp edges of his teeth. “You told us you were part of his security detail,” Yassen says slowly.

“Transferred out a couple of days ago. Rider’s really been keeping this case tight. Only Jones, Crawley and Smithers would know where he’s being transferred.”

“And when is that?”

“Sometime next week.”

Yassen hums again. “No date?”

“I’ve only been updated on his situation today.”

“And that was all they said?”

“Yes.”

“You could not have pushed for more?”

Wilby seems almost ignorant of the thin ice he’s treading and of the exorbitant amount of money Scorpia is paying him. “It’s not that easy. There’s rumours in the office that our keystrokes are being regularly checked.”

“Then you will just have to be more creative with your approach, won’t you?” Yassen asks. “I do not expect it to be ‘easy’. If it was ‘easy’, then you would not be getting paid nearly half as much as you do now, yes?”

Wilby promptly shuts his open mouth. The first smart thing he’s done all day. “Yes.”

“Good,” Yassen says. “Did you bring the recording with you?”

“Yeah. Here.” Wilby almost flicks the Micro-SD card into his hands. “All of his interrogations are here. He is a tough one.”

“Of course, he is.” Alex is trained by one of the best. “Is that all for today?”

Wilby’s eyes flick up and down his face, and he must have let some of his bad mood filter through, because Wilby’s shoulder briefly inches closer to the door. “Yes. That’s all for today.”

“Alright,” Yassen says. “You are dismissed—but Martin.”

Wilby’s hand clutches the door handle for a moment. “Yes?”

“Location tomorrow, if you will,” Yassen says.

And like his mother taught him, Yassen punctuates his request with a polite and pleasant smile.

It goes without saying that Yassen will be very disappointed if Wilby fails to deliver. After all, hardly anyone would care about a traitor’s disappearance. 

* * *

In the end, Yassen taps into Crawley’s phone for his information. Crawley is a family man, with a wife and three toddlers, and parents living in a tightly packed house with little room for privacy. First Yassen bugs his car, and when the opportunity arises—and an ample amount will during a grocery run with three toddlers to juggle—he bugs Crawley’s phone. That is how he finds out that Wilby is being watched and how he finds out where they're transporting his wayward puppy.

Yassen lingers on the street corner where Alex’s car will inevitably stall. His phone vibrates, and Rothman’s voice rings out.

“Security code?”

“Zeta-four-six-nine-phi-two-five,” Yassen says. “Yes? Why are you calling me?”

“You are extracting him.”

It is not a question, but a statement. Yassen already knows he is revealing too much of himself by doing this. He will deal with the fallout later.

“Yes,” Yassen says. “The mission brief has been fulfilled.”

Rothman hums. “And?”

“He has revealed nothing.”

_“I’m no one but Alex Rider,” Alex repeats, again and again. “I was at the only place at the wrong time.”_

_“All the way in Bath?”_

_“Why?” Alex shoots back. “Was I supposed to be in Siberia? That’s right, I was supposed to die there, wasn’t I?”_

A pen clicks on and off over the call. “There is a job in Milan. Be there in four days. Both of you,” she says, before hanging up.

Yassen slips his phone back into his pocket. He waits.

* * *

Alex has not said a word since John Rider sat down in his seat, nor has he looked up from his cuffed hands. Even through the tinny feel of a camera, Alex exudes an exceptional amount of belligerence, anger, and underneath it all, a prickly raw sense of hurt.

John stares at Alex, unblinking. They’re almost mirror images of each other if John had shaved his beard.

“I used to teach Yassen, a long time ago,” John says. “Before you were born. I was undercover in Scorpia, and I was assigned his handler. I called him Cossack. He called me Hunter. We travelled the world as I taught him everything he knew. Doesn’t that sound familiar?”

There is no reply across the table. John probably didn’t expect one. He clears his throat and folds his hands in on the table in front of him and it’s—the little things, the little actions which demands attention, no matter how reluctant the attention may be. If there is one thing John Rider knew how to do, it’s holding a person’s complete and undivided attention.

“I could see that he idolised me, even when he was bothered by the things he’s asked to do,” John says. “But he would do them. Why? Because I would be the one to ask him to do it. Afterwards, I would lay him down—"

“Stop,” Alex says quietly.

John ignores him. “I would work the guilt out of him. I would pat him and praise him, offer him all the comforts in the world. Then a new job would begin, and the cycle happens all over again. Now, I will ask again. Doesn’t that sound familiar? Do you really think that what you and Yassen have is genuine and authentic and _special?_ ”

Despite Alex’s little outbreak earlier, he keeps his mouth stubbornly shut. The bottom of his chin hardly wobbles.

“You see, Alex.” John fixes the glasses on his nose. “There is a tactic Rothman employs—for agents she deems particularly vulnerable to that kind of attention. Romantic entanglements between a handler and his agent are not forbidden. In fact, she encourages them. It is a test for the handler, as much as it is a means to secure the agent’s loyalty.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“In time, you will,” John says. “I’m sure that, in time, you will be assigned as a handler to your own agent. Just as you will understand that these feelings are natural and common, given the circumstances of our work. The intimacy and trust which stems from laying down your life in someone’s hands. After all, everything you feel for Yassen now, Yassen has felt for me.”

With that John stands and walks to the door. Before he shows himself out, he stops and hammers the final nail on the coffin of his statement.

“I would have loved Yassen too, if it wasn’t for your mother,” John admits. “I loved her. She was my first in every way that matters, and you never quite forget your first love.”

The door shuts with a final click on his way out.

* * *

The moment the car stalls, Yassen picks up the little machine from his pocket. He fixes the machine so that it hangs on the front grill of the car. Alex’s security detail—three men, two in the front seat, one in the back—yanks the door handle to no avail. Soon, the machine would have sucked all the oxygen out of the vehicle. There is no way for the car inhabitants to escape unless they’re powerful enough to break through the bullet proof glass. Sometimes, an approach as simple as a child-lock can be the key to an effective mission. All the doors are child-locked, that is, except for one.

Yassen catches Alex’s eyes over the window. His gaze flicks down to the door on his right.

Alex is out and the child-lock is flicked on before security knows it. The man in the backseat dives for him but ends up scrabbling against the window.

The machine turns on with a hiss. Alex is entranced, staring at the men retching for their breath.

“Hunter,” Yassen says.

Alex jolts, and he scurries after Yassen.

* * *

Bits of Alex’s face are purpling into a bruise. Specks of blood are still smeared on his skin. His stitches have crusted at the corners. It should not have surprised Yassen that John takes poor care of his son. Yet, John continues to do so, again and again. They fly to a safe house in Glasgow immediately, as Yassen doesn’t want to risk another capture. Only then, after they've driven for hours towards their safe house, does Yassen fhinally shoo his puppy into a bath.

Alex sways on his feet. The past few days must have caught up to him.

“You don’t have to come,” Alex says. “I can wash myself.”

Blinking, Yassen frowns. “You don’t want me there?”

“Well, no. I didn’t say that.”

Yassen wonders if Alex is stewing over the things John said. All the more reason Yassen should come. Alex has had a hard couple of days, and he needs his rest.

And Yassen supposes that he has his own motives as well. Running shampoo through Alex’s hair, softening the tense muscle in his arms, washing his way down Alex’s shoulders—the physical touch grounds him. The pricked nerves running along his skin are soothed along with Alex's pliant limbs. Tension unfurls inside the strained fibers of his muscles. Each time Alex sighs, the sound seeps into the aching cracks in his bones, and Yassen feels like he can finally rest after a year of running a marathon.

“Yassen?”

“Hmm?”

Yassen is towelling Alex’s hair now, rubbing the little strands until they wet his fluffy towel. Alex sits on the bed, stretching out his pyjama-clad legs and curling his toes, the picture of a well-pampered cat on the verge of a nap.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Yassen says. “You need to eat first.” When Yassen gets no answer, he nudges Alex’s head slightly. “Hey. Are you listening?”

“Yes, I’m listening.” Alex yawns. “’M not sleepy.”

A chuckle bubbles from his chest. “Yes, of course,” Yassen says fondly. “The sound of someone who is completely awake.”

“Was my dad the one who trained you?”

Ah. This question was a long time coming. Even the thought of John curls something unpleasant and sharp in his stomach. “Yes.” Yassen tries not to sneer. “Unfortunately, he was.”

“You didn’t like him?”

The towel in Alex’s hair pauses, before Yassen admits, “On the contrary, I suppose I loved him. It’s unfortunate because I wasn’t aware that he was working with MI6 at the time.” Yassen puts the towel away and pulls a chair in front of Alex. “Is this because of the things he said during the interrogation?”

Alex blinks, before the corner of his mouth twitches. “Of course, you would be listening in.”

“I wasn’t going to leave you there alone.” Yassen tilts his head, his eyebrow furrowing. “Did you think I would?”

Very few things would cause Alex to curl into himself. MI6’s previous treatment of him does. Yassen despises that a few carefully placed words can reduce Alex back to the hurt, isolated, and lonely boy he once was.

Yassen takes Alex’s hand. He tugs him into his lap.

Perhaps, Yassen should have been the one who sits on the bed, they would have had more room that way, but Alex climbs on without a word, and rests his face into the crook of Yassen’s shoulder. Yassen’s hands immediately find their home at the back of Alex’s head. His thumb draws small languorous circles on the nape of his neck.

Alex shudders. He snuggles in deeper, and his breath tickles against Yassen’s skin.

Alex is like a cat at times—he needs to be petted while he thinks. The comfort and the touch helps him gather his thoughts together.

“I’m not John, Alex,” Yassen says.

“I know.”

“I will keep saying that for as long as you need me to.”

“I know,” Alex says again. “MI6 always lies. Dad always lies. In one way or another. I always told myself that. But what he said about Mrs. Rothman… was he telling the whole truth? Is all this part of some kind of test for you?”

Yassen resists from clamping down on his hold in case Alex wants to leave, but Alex doesn’t stiffen or shake—despite the heaviness of his question. If Yassen admits the truth, would Alex leave? He might, and the thought only drives Yassen to consider discarding the whole thought process all together. But Alex deserves the truth. Yassen needs to be the one who tells him the truth. John always lies. So, Yassen has to tell the truth. 

“It is not a test, but it is… a tactic which Rothman suggested I employed.”

“Have you done this to other people? Or am I the only one?”

Yassen very much wishes he could see Alex’s face right now. “You are the only one.”

A moment of silence. Then, a soft confession.

“Alright.”

His concern only deepens. “Alright?”

“Yeah,” Alex says.

“You’re not…?” Yassen feels very new at this. Very untested.

This time, Alex shifts his face so he can look up at Yassen. There’s a clear sparkle of amusement in his eyes.

“I doubt that you’d be forced to do anything you didn’t want to do,” Alex says. “Even if the order came from Mrs. Rothman.”

And just like that, a wave of relief washes over him. Yassen pulls Alex’s head closer and dips a long, grateful kiss on his forehead. Then he kisses his way down the bridge of Alex’s nose, and plants one on his eyebrow for good measure.

“Alex, you are…” Yassen tries to find the balance between cracking his shell open and spilling himself completely. “You are important to me. This is unfamiliar territory.”

Alex touches the underside of Yassen’s chin with his finger. “I know.”

“That makes you a target,” Yassen says. “Not just for MI6, but for Rothman, for Kurst, for Dr. Three, and everybody else.”

“I can handle them.”

“No, you can’t.” But his stubbornness has always been endearing and Yassen can’t help but smile. "I don't want you to try."

“I didn’t say I would be facing them alone,” Alex points out. “I’d have you with me. Right?”

“Always,” Yassen says, before hefting himself up, and juggling an armful of Alex onto the bed.

“Oof,” Alex says, as Yassen flops on top of him. “Hey, watch it. I’m injured, remember?”

“Hmm,” Yassen says, face full of blond hair and the scent of Alex filling his lungs.

Like he said, his actions today gave too much of himself away. It doesn’t matter, though. Buried as he is, in Alex’s scent and feel, the restless haze clouding Yassen’s mind finally disperses. Let Rothman and Kurst try and use Alex against him. Yassen never needed a big reason to dispose of them anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> If there was a second chapter it'd probably be about Alex and Yassen murdering their way to the top of Scorpia and making John furious. Rip John.


End file.
